


Stitched

by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Donna Hanscum, Caring, F/M, Forehead Kisses, Hurt Dean Winchester, Love, Sleepy Kisses, Stitches, kisses in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild/pseuds/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: A series of one-shots chronicling the love story of Dean Winchester and Donna Hanscum with the five times she stitched him and the one time he stitched her and how they connected along the way.





	1. Werewolves & Family

To be fair, Donna Hanscum is rarely prepared for anything including but not limited to the seven alarms she requires to not be more than ten minutes late for work, the number of vampires that will come out of hiding once one of their own kind is dead, and the number of hunters that pass through Stillwater seeking first-aid and a sip of something to wipe out the memory of whatever monster doused them in the horrific gore of death. Even less so at three in the morning, after a night of girl talk and wine with Jody. Her mind is a haze of sleep and vague memories of a wine with a crumbling cork and odd taste - so _not_ prepared to find the crumpled form of Dean Winchester on her porch.

“Dean?”

“Hey,” a ragged, wet breath around a mouthful of blood - hopefully not his own.  “I'm really sorry about this but…”

“But you're bleeding all over my door.” Donna interrupts him, grabbing an arm to at least get him into a room to take stock of his injuries. The puddle of light pouring into her foyer from the living room is as far as she gets before he grunts and leans against the nearest wall, too weak to travel any further.

He's slightly bent at the waist, large frame curling around his left arm, which appears to be wrapped in red fabric. His eyes are glassy, almost crazed, pupils blown to hell, suggesting a knock to the head if not a full blown concussion.

“Oy!” Donna breathes, sliding a gentle hand through his messy hair. “What ate you up?”

“Werewolf.” Dean grunts, looking up at her - all six of her. “Why are there six of you?”

Well.

That settles that.

Definitely a concussion.

“Because, you took a lick.” Donna sighs, fingers now actively searching his scalp for signs of trauma - a bump, bruise, tender spot. Anything that might tell her what’s going on. “Some werewolf, eh?”

Dean’s answering mewl lets her know real quick two things, that she found the right spot, and that it had been one hell of a monster to fight on his own.

“Where’s Sam?” her soft Minnesota accent soothes him, a calm, sleepy rasp in the chaos he’s made of three a.m. in the Hanscum household.

“With Jody. He’s got a busted knee, can barely walk.” Dean swallows hard around the words, nausea pounding, hot and thick in the back of his throat. A warm palm on his chest helps him right himself and reveal his arm.  

“And, you thought takin’ on a werewolf on your own was a good idea?” Donna scolds him gently, framing his face with her hands. A busted lip, some harsh bruising under his eyes, and blown pupils match the concussion on his head. That werewolf must have smacked him around a fair bit.

His arm, however, is another matter entirely.

The red fabric?

Actually the sleeve of one of his beloved flannels that he’d ripped off and wrapped around the large gash on his arm in a makeshift bandage until he could get the proper first-aid to make sure it didn’t end up infected.

“Oh, shouldn’t ya be at the hospital gettin’ an assful of antibiotic?” it’s that long Minnesota drawl that makes her grin seem all the more cheeky.

“Not if you’ve got stitches and liquor.” Dean grins. “Whichever one of you is in charge of this rodeo.”

Donna just sighs.

She should have known her reputation within the hunter community would get back to the Winchesters. Aside from taking the heads off a few nests worth of vamps, she'd become famous for first-aid. It wasn't well known but the few people who truly knew Donna knew that before entering the academy, she trained as a paramedic, so when she entered the police academy, all of her medical training was refreshed and re-ingrained in her head. So when a couple of big-mouth hunters found out, she'd been adopted as the supernatural nurse. Donna doesn't think much about having hunters pass through her home, anymore. The woman can stitch a wound perfectly in thirty seconds. A wendigo here, a weird hybrid thing there, and she's stitching up a grouchy bastard while he's swearing into a glass of cheap whiskey. She's a regular at varying medical supply websites, has credit cards under three different names to keep suspicion away.

“Get into the kitchen and don't bleed all over my carpet.” she grumbles, lifting his injured arm above his head. “Keep it up. It's supposed to help with the bleeding. Ya be nice, I'll make you a milkshake.”

“Whiskey?”

“Don't get too excited, handsome.” Donna clips his chin playfully. “Chocolate.”

Dean just grunts, folding his large frame into her kitchen chair. The upholstered box she retrieves from on top of her fridge looks like one of those sewing kits he's seen at the house of some little old lady, the last time he had to cleanse a house from a ghost - cute or not, children made the scariest ghosts, as they were frighteningly tuned into their emotions, especially anger, and with a child, emotions tended to be far more raw and amplified than with a grown up who holds back.

“How old are you, Donna?” Dean teases around clenched teeth.

“Old enough to know you don't go messin’ with a werewolf without help.” she shot back, opening the case, and pulling out the sutures, a curved needle, antiseptic, and alcohol. “Hurt like a bitch?”

Dean just grunts, thrusting his arm in her general direction. It takes nearly an entire bottle of antiseptic to find the wound underneath drying blood and his irreparable shirt sleeve. Needless to say, the shirt ends up in a trash bag to be burnt, later when he wasn't reduced to the likes of a kicked puppy by pain.

“Be still and keep breathing.” Donna reminds him, preparing the needle and thread.

When everything is ready, she begins her careful work. That first stitch is always the worst, pulling at skin, forcing it back together, always makes Dean grit his teeth a bit but Donna's focus on the task at hand leaves him helpless but to watch.  

“That first one is always a bummer.” Donna hums, tying it off, before moving onto the next. “Never quite get used to that initial pull.”  

Dean’s eyebrows arch; that tone speaks of experience, it speaks of someone who has been in a position that required stitches, before. Never one to keep his mouth shut, he tilts his head (oh, bad plan, Winchester) and prods for more. “You've had stitches?”

“Unfortunately.” Donna nods, tying off the fourth stitch. “I was seventeen the first time.”

“What happened?” Dean prods gently.

“I bled a lot during that time of the month and I was almost always in bed, in pain.” Donna swallows hard around the words. “But, it got progressively worse until I was too weak to move. My, uh, mom called an ambulance and I was rushed to the hospital.”

“What was it?”  he feels a sudden protectiveness over the blonde stitching up his arm.

“They were, uh, fibroids.” she ties off another stitch and loops another through. “Benign tumors. And a lot of them.”

“So, what did they do?” Dean prods just a little.

“I had to have a hysterectomy. A full one.” her voice is wrecked, her eyes are wet, and she has to take a break to dry her face before she can finish her stitch job. “No kids for me.”

“Family don't end with blood, sweetheart.” Dean drawls. “I was raised by a man who didn't have to do it. He didn't want kids of his own. I'm not even sure he liked kids but he raised me and Sam. He was the best damn father to us. Even if he wasn't our biological father.”

“Sounds like a good guy.” Donna smiles gratefully, encouraging him to keep talking. Distract her from thoughts of the family she’ll never have - although, Chrissy, Claire, and Alex were wonderful, she does long for the afterglow of birth, when a newborn is snuggled against their mama and skin to skin contact is encouraged by nurses to help the baby adjust and the roller-coaster of emotion that comes with raising a child and hoping you don't screw it up. 

“Bobby Singer.” Dean remembers him fondly. “He was the best.”  

The conversation drops while she finishes sewing him up and pours antiseptic over the area, the sting of which makes him grit his teeth. When the stitched arm is clean and dry, she wraps it in a fresh bandage, and grabs a gauze pad, soaking it in peroxide, before scooting her chair closer. Dean shifts so his knees bracket hers and she can do whatever she needs to do.

“Lemme see that face, handsome.” Donna murmurs, tilting his face with a hand under his chin, and  brushing the gauze along the gash on his temple.

Something about the nearness of her, the warmth emanating from her, the way she’s so tender and gentle calms him. The raging fire of adrenaline burns off, settling into a comfortable heat, but whether it’s his own or it’s Donna’s, he can’t be sure. All he knows is that he feels warm and safe and _loved_ and it releases the tension in his muscles and a want of sleep burns behind heavy eyelids.

“Want to borrow my couch, tonight?” she asks softly, smearing antibiotic cream along the gash with her thumb. “You seem exhausted.”

Dean just grunts in response, too tired to argue with her. “Okay,” she smiles, leaning up a little to kiss his forehead. “Let’s get you somewhere you can sleep.”

His good arm winds around her neck as if he’s always done it, and they stumble to her living room where she helps him onto the couch and tugs his heavy boots off of his feet. He keeps his good arm tucked safely against his ribs and lets Donna tuck him under the soft afghan on the back of her couch.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome, Dean.”


	2. Angel Blades & Listening Ears

The thing with Dean is that one unexpected visit spirals into, well, more than one unexpected visit and quite frankly, Donna isn't sure she has a first aid kit or a liquor cabinet large enough to deal with the oldest Winchester. He doesn't demand alcohol but she's had a drink with them, and that weird crumpled man with blue eyes that clung to the ways of the world like a dying man clings to life, and she knows how they are. Perhaps, it was the false hope that the stench of alcohol could hide the reek of death that followed them, but both Winchester boys drank like frat boys at a keg party.  

“Y'know,” she carefully slices through blood stained cotton, very aware of the protective gaze of one Mary Winchester watching over a cup of spiked tea. “You shouldn't drink while I do this.”

“Why?” a voice of blood and gravel, spitting at the world that's repeatedly bit him in the ass for trying to do something good, something worthwhile.

“Alcohol is a blood thinner.” she murmurs, leaning over him to get a better look at the wound. Waves of blonde hair blanket his bicep and tickle his forearm. “Makes it harder to stop the bleeding. Could be dangerous.”

Mary's mouth opens, ready to tell Donna that she's given him that spiel to no avail, but closes when it seems Donna makes it stick. She's given him pause, enough to push the tumbler of whiskey away.

“Okay.” Donna easily slices through the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Looks superficial but you’re still gonna need stitches. And, handsome,  you're gonna have to lose the t-shirt.”

“I'd rather you cut it off me.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows suggestively but Donna cuffs the back of his head.

“I'm sure you would, handsome.” she laughs, ruffling his hair. “Not today.”  

She does help him take it off, though. Slowly peeling at the gray cotton until they can get it off of him without moving his arm or shoulder where the wound is. Apparently, angels were not just dicks with wings, this particular angel had a fondness for using his angel blade. He fought dirty, unafraid to bring the world down with him.  

When Donna begins cleaning the wound, he doesn't swear like she expected. Actually he makes a noise that can only be described as making a wrong move in the game  _ Operation  _ and with Donna now in front of him, his hands sought purchase. On her. Her hips to be more specific and he leans his head forward until he meets the warm softness of her cute tummy.

“Breathe, Dean.” she reminds him, wiping away the streaks of blood that remain with a clean, dry gauze pad. “This is gonna have to have a bandage or your seatbelt will irritate it.”

His shoulders shudder through a few deep breaths while she readies her needle and the suturing thread for her work. Mary watches with the utmost fascination as this (rather adorable, really) blonde sheriff stitches up her son with the same finesse and expertise of a medical professional.  

“So, what left you with this parting gift?” Donna loops the first stitch, pulls it, and begins the next.

“Angel.” Dean grits his teeth. “Apparently, some of them are still pissed off about Cas’ rebellion and the new direction of heaven.”

Still seems funny to Donna, and to Mary, to hear about a holy war and the irony of it raining hellfire down on earth but that's the way it is. And, because of their unhealthy codependency on each other and the few people allowed in their circle, the Winchesters felt this inane need to protect Cas, thus putting themselves in the crosshairs of some very pissed off angels.  

“He - the angel thought Dean was hiding Castiel.” Mary speaks around the rim of her tea cup. “He thought Dean was hiding Castiel’s grace.”

“They can track that?” Donna mumbles, tying off another stitch.

Dean just nods, breathing her in. The slow, shuddering breaths have little effect on the state of his nerves. They were still blown to hell, but with every breath, he breathes in a little more of Donna. She smells like strawberries and donuts and  cookie dough. “You smell good, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Handsome.” Donna laughs, finishing up her stitch job. “Baking for a fundraiser is as close as I get to sweets, these days.”

The lingering effects of a divorce, he supposes, and a husband who wanted a trophy wife instead of an actual marriage. It's hard to enjoy the things you used to when you spent years being put down for finding pleasure in them. And it wasn't Donna's fault. If anything, Dean blames her asshole of an ex for what Donna deals with.  

“Any extras?” Dean looks up at her hopefully.

“I might have a couple left.” Donna winks, pouring antiseptic onto a clean gauze pad. “You know how recipes are, always makes more than they say.”

But, Mary knows better.

The few times she did manage to cook, it was usually in hopes of impressing John, by baking his favorite cookie - he was a peanut butter man, let the record show - and there were very few times when she got more cookies than the recipe said. Baking is an exact science, so you’d have to purposefully make enough dough to end up with extras. Donna didn’t have any extra cookies or whatever it was she made, by accident, she did it on purpose. Maybe, in the hopes of a Winchester, or two, stopping by.

“All done, Handsome.” she smooths the medical tape in place.

“Thanks. I’ll try not to crash on your couch, again.” Dean laughs, rolling his shoulder to relieve the pull of fresh stitches.

“Aww, I like having a hot guy sleeping on my couch.” Donna giggles, “Makes it feel like Christmas.”

Dean blushes a particularly hot shade of red. Mary observes. Clearly, this woman had an easy, comfortable friendship with her son. The teasing, the first aid, keeping him calm, and sober. It seemed as if the cute sheriff was someone special to her son.

“Alright, Handsome.” she clips his chin on the way into her kitchen. “Let's see what I've got.”

While Dean and Mary sit silently in the dining room - she still hasn’t figured out that dynamic, they’ve barely said two words to each other since they arrived - Donna takes the opportunity to do a bit of mothering. She pulls two tupperware containers out of the fridge along with the baker’s box of leftover treats.

While a large container of leftover lasagna is reheating in the microwave, she spreads a few cookies on a pan and sticks them and a pan of garlic bread in the oven at a lower temperature than she would normally but they don’t actually need to bake, just warm. It’s a bit makeshift, but she supposes they’ll be grateful for anything that isn’t from the local greasy spoon. While the food reheats, she pours a couple of sodas, and digs through her dishwasher for the plates she’s sure she washed at some point - work, vampires,  _ teenagers  _ (which are scarier than vampires if she’s completely honest) kept getting in the way.

Scooping generous portions of lasagna onto plates, along with a couple slices of warmed bread, she grabs a couple of forks, and heads into the dining room. “Here,” she sets a plate down in front of each of them. “Eat some real food. You look like you could use something that isn’t on a greasy bun.”

“You - you cook?” Dean points between her and the plate.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t eat.” Donna snorts a very un-ladylike laugh, but Dean finds it endearing, mostly because that warmth is returning to his stomach. “I don’t do take-out, because I’d have to drive over to the next town. It’s my Mom’s recipe, by the way.”

Dean’s stomach grumbles its approval. “Well, Mom,” he picks up a fork and grins at his Mom, that cute little side-smile he does when he’s pleased. “Bon appetit.”

“I’ll be right back with some drinks.” Donna giggles, disappearing into the kitchen again to retrieve the previously poured sodas.

Dean does his best to ignore that comfortable heat in the pit of his stomach. It had sparked the first time he was here. Something about being in the presence of Donna, of having a cute, soft blonde stitch him up, of listening to her tell the tale of the first time she got stitches (something, he fully intends to make her talk about more at a later date. He knows she needs to), and just letting himself be cared for with more tenderness than Sam’s ever managed had made him feel, well, tipsy.  The sweet sort of tipsy where everything is hazy and blurred and there’s a sort of giggling optimism that tugs your guard down enough, you don’t think the world is going to shit.

“You like her.” Mary teases softly, pointing at him with her fork. “You really like her.”

“Wh-what?” it doesn’t sound like denial, because it isn’t. He does like her. Hell, he thinks he could fall in love with her, if he would just let himself. Instead, he just sighs and gives his Mom a sidelong glance. “How’d you guess?”

“You stopped drinking.” Mary pointed out. “You listened to her. You talk, you don’t listen. I figure she must be special.” she offers a casual shrug. “And, Mom’s just know.”

“Like, when you knew it was me who broke the picture frame and not Sam?” Dean still blushes at the thought of that picture frame. He doesn’t feel  _ too  _ guilty about it, now. It had been an ugly frame, but his Mom had loved it, and that was where his guilt was. Not in breaking the frame, but in something so special to his Mom.

“Sam was a week old, Dean.” Mary fixes her son with an exasperated look.

“Touche.”

Donna returns with a plate of cookies balanced on top of a glass of soda and another glass in her other hand. She sets the plate down between them and hands them each their drinks.  “We have good ol’ chocolate chip, a couple of lemon sugar cookies, and Cap’n Crunch peanut butter brownies.”

“You’re the best, sweetheart!” Dean’s eyes widen at the plate of sweet, gooey treats. She’d taken the time to warm them in the oven so the chocolate chips were just melted and the cookie was once again, that perfect, soft, gooey-ness.

Mary observes the way Donna blushes but returns with; “Don’t be too quick with the compliments, Handsome. I could still kill you.”

“Nah, I’m not worried.” Dean tilts his head back to meet her eyes. “If my lifestyle hasn’t killed me, I doubt a gorgeous sheriff will do it.”

“Don’t tempt fate.” Donna winks.

Dean just offers an affectionate smile, lifting the heat to Donna’s cheeks again, still she returned it, though. It’s easy and flirtatious and cute, their dynamic, and it seemed to have been established fairly quickly.

Mary’s taste is more on the fresher side, so the lemon cookies are her preference, but she does enjoy the look of total bliss on her son’s face with that first bite of cereal brownie. Though, she is curious if it is the brownie that makes him feel that way or if it is the maker of the brownies. The pretty blonde with the bright blush and the way about her that relaxed Dean enough to make him push the whiskey away.

“These are amazing, sweetheart!” Dean licks the sticky remnants of peanut butter from his fingers, polishing off the last of the brownies.

“I’m glad you liked them.” Donna ruffles his hair as she disappears into the kitchen again. This time, to box up the rest of the food, jot down easy instructions for garlic bread, and a quick note to remind him to take care of himself. A little care package of sorts to give them before they leave.

While Dean revels in the food, Mary slips away to the kitchen. “Hey,” she enters the bright space hesitantly. It is actually perfect for the blonde; sunny and bright and blue. “Donna, I just want to say thank you.”

“For what?” Donna looks up from writing the recipe for her should-be famous garlic bread.

“For taking care of Dean.” despite, this being a relatively strange woman to her, she feels safe. Comforted by the presence of Donna and the sunshine sinking through the windows. “I know my baby. He’s stubborn and he doesn’t always want to listen but you seem to be changing that.”

“He’s not bad,” Donna tucks the recipe in the box and closes it before taping her note to the top of it. “Of course, he’s stubborn but I don’t think he would’ve made it this far if he wasn’t. And, he does listen, you just have to know when to talk.”

“When is that?”

“When you have something worth listenin’ to.” Donna shrugs, capping her pen, and dropping it on the counter. “Give him somethin’ to believe in.”

“Something to believe in.” Mary repeats thoughtfully. “I’ll remember that.”

“Hey Mom,” Dean steps into the kitchen, clad in his flannel shirt, properly buttoned because of the lack of undershirt, and his favorite jacket. “You ready to go? Sam’s waiting on us.”

“Sure, baby.”

“Here,” Donna plucks the box from the counter and gives it to Mary. “Take this. Save some for Sam.”

“Thank you, again, Donna.” Mary smiles, shifting the box onto one hip to give the woman a hug.

“You’re welcome.”

“Am I next?” Dean pouts when Donna pulls away from his Mom.

Donna gives him a careful hug, avoiding the stitches in his shoulder, and leans up to kiss his cheek. She tightens her hold on him and whispers in his ear, “Try listenin’ to your Mama for a change. I think she could use someone to listen to her.”

Dean tenses but doesn’t say anything to protest when she pulls away. Instead, he just cups her cheek and presses his lips to her forehead, murmuring a soft, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Anytime.”

Another round of smiles and hugs and Mary and Dean are shuffling out of the door, back to Baby, to head back to the bunker. But, before they even get out of the driveway, Mary hands Dean the note Donna taped to the box. Whatever it says must be good because Dean smiles the whole trip.

_ Keep your stitches clean, save Sam some food, and, let your Mama mother you.  _

_ There’s always a home cooked meal and a shot of whiskey for you in Stillwater.  _

_ Call me when you can. I’ll see you the next time, Baby rolls into town.   _

_ Take care of yourself, Handsome _

__ -Donna _ _

 

 


	3. Delicate

The washing machine rattles with buttons and loose change. It's also an eight-year-old washer/dryer set, she bought from a no-name appliance store on the edge of town, and is probably on its last leg. She stopped washing delicates in it after the third year, when it ate her favorite pair of panties - sapphire lace, a creamy satin bow on the front, made her feel extra sexy, when Doug called her extra frumpy - and broke the straps on three bras. 

While, normally, she might bother to dig that loose change out of jean and uniform pockets, toss it in with a few more quarters, and do her laundry at the local laundromat, she's currently out of clothes appropriate for the public - that is, she's down to a pair of pajama shorts decorated with adorable ducklings, the matching tank top, and a sports bra. So, she listens to buttons rattling while Mariah Carey wails on the television, and she folds her tank tops - she keeps extras, buys them in bulk. They’re convenient for life as a hunter. They’re snug but comfortable and there’s no extra fabric to get in the way when she’s painting the nearest surface with vampire blood.

_ “...we were as one, babe, for a moment in time…” _

If she hadn’t been so into her performance, she might have heard Dean’s car roll into the drive, and she might have heard him knock before walking in her open front door. “Hey Donna? Sweetheart?”

_ “....you’ll always be my baby…”  _  the gentle crooning knocks Dean breathless. The song is vaguely recognizable but he immediately knows that it does not belong to the voice currently wrapping around the words so breathtakingly.

Shit.

Is that Donna?

Venturing closer to the source of the voice, he peeks into her living room and finds her digging through a laundry basket, the TV on a lower volume than her voice had implied, as she casually sings along with Mariah. Upon seeing her, he immediately decides that his pulled stitch can wait - it wasn’t a big deal, but he’s passing through Stillwater, and wanted to see his favorite blonde, anyway - he’d much rather watch Donna.

Watch her overpower the vocal powerhouse on the screen, watch her blonde curls bounce and spread across her shoulders, watch her relaxed, easy swaying as she folds shirts and stacks them neatly on her coffee table. It’s only when she stands up to gather her work and put it away that he realizes what she’s wearing. Or, rather, what she’s not wearing. Only emphasized more when she bends over to collect a stack of shirts off of her coffee table and the soft curve of her ass entices him. When she stands up, basket balanced on her hip, he clears his throat and drawls a soft; “You really ought to keep your door locked, sweetheart.”

The basket hits the floor.

Donna shrieks and grabs at her chest.

It takes her a good few seconds to find his long frame filling the doorway to her living room and when she does, her face flushes, and she instinctively grabs a pillow to toss at him. “Dammit, Dean!”  

“Dammit, Donna!” Dean mocks, catching the pillow with ease. “What’ve I told you about leavin’ your door open?”

“More than your Mama told you about creepin’ on the girls!” Donna drawls, affecting a thick Southern twang. The girl is about as far from being Southern as you can get but damn, does she know how to drag out that accent as if she’s a country girl from the deep South. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” an easy smile, despite the twinge in his shoulder from the pulled stitch. “I just hated to interrupt your performance. Mariah’s got nothin’ on you.”

Donna’s face heats up, “I was just - I mean, it - “

Dean just laughs.

Truth is, as much as he enjoyed seeing relaxed, carefree Donna, he likes winding her up, making her blush, and watching her fumble for the right words to explain something that didn’t require an explanation. If her idea of relaxing is lounging in skimpy pajama shorts - with ducks on them, he’s noticing, now - singing Mariah, who was he to judge?

“Uh, laundry day?” a pink flush stains his cheeks, head tilting toward her short cotton shorts - shorter than he’s ever seen on Donna, she’s a big believer in pants, that blonde.

“Oh!” it seems to dawn on her what she’s wearing and can’t help but giggle. “Sorry, Handsome, I’m afraid it is.”

“They’re cute.” he winks at her.

What happens next is definitely worth remembering - her head falls back, eyes closing, and she laughs, full-bodied and loud, all the way from her toes. Oh god, is she gorgeous, this girl. He’s been to her house a couple of times to be stitched and the foundation of their sort-of friendship had undergone some construction, feeling far more solid, more stable, than it did before. But, here, now, is different. This isn’t Donna Hanscum, sheriff and trained but non-practicing EMT, this is  _ Donna,  _ in skimpy cotton, crooning and moving and it is something Dean wants more of and  _ god,  _ it so ridiculous how it knots his stomach up just to think about.

“Did you need somethin’ or are you sniffin’ for a case?” Donna finally questions when she’s thoroughly flushed and breathless from laughter, barely able to keep the giggles restrained behind her sober question.

“I, uh, think I pulled a stitch out, and since I was in the area, thought I’d see if my favorite nurse could fix it.” all he really has to offer is that look - that helpless little boy look that seems to get him anything he wants - but it seems to be enough.

While Donna hardly believes he was in the area, or that he ripped a stitch, she wouldn’t mind him sticking around a while, so she tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Alright, Handsome. Let’s see what I can do.”

Donna retrieves her sewing kit and returns to find a very shirtless hunter at her kitchen table, a row of neat stitches along the line of one shoulder. It looked like one had come apart, somehow, in a scuffle but nothing she couldn’t fix.  “So,” she snaps latex gloves around her wrist. “What really brings you to Stillwater?”

“Stitch, I told you!” Dean insists.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Donna, do you, uh, do you remember what you told me the first time you stitched me?” Dean poses the question carefully while pulling his t-shirt back over his head. “About...kids.”

“Yeah, I can’t have them.” Donna ties off the fresh stitch.

“What did you…” he’s not quite sure why he wants to talk about this - maybe, because he has this weird, inane need to be there for a beautiful woman and the first time she talked about this, he sensed she wanted to go further.

“I had fibroids - benign tumors, Dean.” she drops the stuff back in the kit and drops down in a kitchen chair. “The doctors said I needed a full hysterectomy.”

“Donna…”

“Y’know, I always wanted kids.” she smiles and it’s all fake and bitter and resentment. “Even as a teenager - I had dreams about being a mother and then it was taken from me. At  _ seventeen. _ ” her voice is wrecked, and he recognizes tears when he sees them. “To have to deal with that - I wasn’t ready. Maybe, I did love cookie dough milkshakes more than Doug but I was scared. I was scared, okay?”

Without a thought, Dean leans forward and rests his hands on her bare knees. “Of what, sweetheart?” a soft husk, barely audible, if he wasn’t so close to her - if she couldn’t feel the comforting heat emanating from him.

“That if I actually felt anything for him, I’d blame him for not having kids.” Donna looks down at the large hands cupping her knees, focuses on the web of scar tissue she can feel on his palms. “It’s called transference - that’s what the therapist said when I told her why I couldn’t love Doug.”

“And, now?” that damn head tilt, again, and those big, curious eyes.

“Now,” she releases a deep breath and leans closer to him, needing a little more of his warmth, a little more of his closeness to compose herself. “I’ve realized that it was the kid thing but I also think a part of me knew he settled. I was the best he could do until something better came along.”

A tender hand is cupping her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his, and he’s giving her a tender smile and a firm reassurance. “I want you to hear me when I say this - you  _ are  _ the best, sweetheart. There is no better.”

If she wasn’t on the verge of crying, she might toss some Minnesota slang his way, just to watch his face contort in confusion but she can’t really get her thoughts together and the tears slip out of her eyes before she realizes. But, Dean is there, all soft and gentle, brushing them away with a neat swipe of his thumb, and leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

“Thank you for telling me, Donna.” he murmurs, thumb still moving along her cheekbone. “I kinda got the feeling you needed to talk about it, the first time.” he drops a kiss to her cheek, and pulls away, only to notice her still broken expression and change his mind. “Hey, c’mere.”

It’s a weird position - one she honestly never thought she’d be in - but she’s half in his lap, buried in his arms, while he rubs her back, and tells her that it will get better and he’d always be there for her.

He’ll even sing Mariah with her.

And, for the first time since she was seventeen, she feels like she’s being put back together, stitch by delicate stitch.


End file.
